Dreams of the Witch House

Parallel to the crowded streets runs a secret network of back alleys, cul-de-sacs and labyrinthine corridors that would make you believe, upon stepping on them, but a few yards from the worldly bustle, that you have suddenly been transported to a different city altogether. Arthur Machen and H.P. Lovecraft were masters of the ghost drift through which such spider-webs of empty omen can be discovered. Watch Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie roam the streets of Venice at night, haunted by the blur of a red mac, follow Lt. Kinderman down the staircase where Father Karras met his ghastly end, and you will understand what I am telling you.

These lonely places are where dark pacts are signed, where men whose faces are but a smudge of charcoal rendezvous for a few seconds to exchange envelopes sealed in wax and disappear in the shadows, where the prey runs from his hunter, mad with terror. These places have their own irresistible symphony, the echo of steps on distant stones, a window creaks opened by an invisible force and a trembling light spills out, pulsating feebly with a drone that reeks of things that are forbidden. It is the subtle change in the texture of the air which in a moment of foreboding makes the idle walker quicken his pace away, towards that which is garish and loud and hides no secrets.

Mater Suspiria Vision are no idle walkers, but wilful adepts of the wicked lore piling in the corners where the halls of this maze meet, they return and inside the shapeless bulk of their hood feline eyes blink with glee, sheets of velvet slide open and you are blinded by the liquid reflection of silver artefacts, torrents of ink tattooing the scroll pages of books that survived fire and purification, the golden Tiberius clinks for a moment shining like a grail of evil, you who stand in the boundary between that which is known and that which can be known but shouldn’t, surrender.

We met in the derelict playground buttressed by three cancerous towers, with cheap wine, sandwiches and a cassette player.

The light of the sun was such that the world stood perfectly defined, masses of ochre, rust, dying grass and sand, abandoned toys standing like esoteric totems in the background of a faded polaroid. We talked and we pushed the creaking wheel, we swung in the precarious swings and as the world slid up and down, a black bird crossed the blue sky in a straight line of technical precision. Music of our youth glared from the cassette and we talked as the sun continued its never-ending procession above, oblivious to the strange cycle of the colossal shadows of the towers surrounding us, chattering and smoking and nodding and remembering, as the afternoon began.

How can the sun shine in a way such that three shadows converge in a point which is the geometric centre of the triangle that they define?

But it happened, and so we found ourselves in the intersection of these pillars of darkness, and our conversation died away as the sounds from the cassette player decomposed into a crackling pool of static from which an eerie melody surfaced, like a naked dryad emerging from a pool of water hidden deep in the forests. Emerald eyes, emerald eyes shining in the vague and pale silhouettes of children surrounding us in a circle, devoid of faces yet staring intensely like only children and the mad can, at us who had trespassed on their property,

It lasted for but a few moments, after which the three shadows parted ways and suddenly we were alone again, reality recovered its definition. Then we knew that bad things had happened in that playground.

We left in silence, and never again mentioned what had happened that day.

And if you are not losing your shit in 13 Monsters on Saturday, and you are in London, you should go to Mucky Pup to celebrate the launch of Teeth of the Sea’sHypnoticon 12′‘. It shall be blinding. We have a sizzling mixtape that they have put together for us coming up next week. Exalt!